“It was fine and brave of you. She glared at him with satisfaction. So I undertook to protect her by keeping love out of her life, by crushing it whenever it appeared, obliterating it. ‘It is London’s loss, ma’am. It was common name, so I was thrown off the scent. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. It isn’t because you’re good, but because I may be rotten bad; and there’s something—something living and understanding in you. “You see,” he said, “you are like an inaccessible gold-mine in all this sort of matter.
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